mistaking
shaboodle-shake
!)
Monday, September 6, 1954
Diary Book,
Today, when I asked Mama why we celebrate Labor Day, she said, “To acknowledge those of us who work, to pause on behalf of laborers.” But there was no pausing in our house today. It was like we were getting ready to meet the queen. Some kind of scrub bug has bitten Mama. She spent the day sweeping and wiping all over our house.
“Is somebody special coming?” I asked.
“
You’re
special,” Mama said. “And you’re
going
to a new school.”
I started to ask what me going to Prettymanhas to do with furniture polish and a broom, but I held my tongue. Somehow, to Mama’s way of thinking, a clean house means a good first day of school.
Tuesday, September 7, 1954
Diary Book,
Mama’s gone cuckoo bird! Yesterday it was cupboards and carpets. Now it’s me. Tonight when I took a bath, Mama scrubbed me cleaner than clean. She washed from my eyebrows to my toe jam, then set my hair on hard plastic curlers. Those curlers have teeth on them, too. “For
gripping
your hair,” Mama explained.
Now she expects me to get a good night’s sleep on these teethy pink plastic things. Mama had given me a whole mess of curlers from her hair care kit, too many for my small head of hair. When I told her I didn’t need the extra curlers, and to please put them back in her hair-care kit, she insisted that I keep a pile of the curlers on my nightstand. “They come loose and can fall out while you sleep,” she told me. “Besides, curlers are like socks. They have a way of disappearing. Always good to have some handy.”
While I was in the bathroom messing with thecurlers in my hair, trying to tie up my hard plastic teethy head in a scarf, Mama laid out clothes for my first day at Prettyman Coburn.
When I got back to my bedroom, there it was on a new hanger, dangling from the doorknob — the Peach Melba dress! Before I could protest, Mama explained, “I sewed a panel into each side to open up the bodice. It’ll fit fine now.”
The patent leather shoes were on the floor, side by side, at the foot of the dress. I’d taken to calling those shoes “the Vaselines.” They had more grease on them than a petroleum factory.
The shoes fit, but even with ankle socks, they rub at the heel and on the tops of my feet, at the place where the buckle meets each of the straps. The worst part, though, is that Mama had made a hair bow to match the dress. That thing looked more like a
bone
than a bow. I would be going to Prettyman Coburn with Vaseline feet and a Peach Melba
bone
in my hair!
I didn’t say a word — I
couldn’t.
Partly because the only word flinging up inside my head was
ugly,
and partly because I didn’t want to hurt Mama’s feelings. She had worked hard on mending the dress, shining the shoes, and making the bow.
But what about my feelings? I don’t give a nose hair what people think about me, but I also don’t like to look stupid.
Later – the in-between
For the life of me, I can’t sleep.
I’ve counted sheep, chickens, baseballs, the stars out my window, and the moans made by our pipes. I’m more excited than on Christmas Eve.
What shiny surprises will be waiting for me tomorrow?
Even with all my excitement,
shaboodle-shake
is rocking my bed — and my head.
Wednesday, September 8, 1954
Diary Book,
Last night I dreamed about the Panic Monster.
I woke up with a bad headache, from the curlers. When I took them out, their teeth had left marks on my forehead and at my ears. And my curled hair made me look like a muffin-head.
Mama secured the
bone
with four big bobby pins.
Then she and Daddy started in with repeating their lists of “Always remember …” and “Don’t forget …” and “Make sure you …”
But before Mama or Daddy could get too deep into their rules, the phone rang. I answered it. I knew the voice right off. It was that white lady from the NAACP, asking to
tawlk
to Mama or Daddy.
I pushed the receiver at Mama. “Yes,
shaboodle-shake
!)
Monday, September 6, 1954
Diary Book,
Today, when I asked Mama why we celebrate Labor Day, she said, “To acknowledge those of us who work, to pause on behalf of laborers.” But there was no pausing in our house today. It was like we were getting ready to meet the queen. Some kind of scrub bug has bitten Mama. She spent the day sweeping and wiping all over our house.
“Is somebody special coming?” I asked.
“
You’re
special,” Mama said. “And you’re
going
to a new school.”
I started to ask what me going to Prettymanhas to do with furniture polish and a broom, but I held my tongue. Somehow, to Mama’s way of thinking, a clean house means a good first day of school.
Tuesday, September 7, 1954
Diary Book,
Mama’s gone cuckoo bird! Yesterday it was cupboards and carpets. Now it’s me. Tonight when I took a bath, Mama scrubbed me cleaner than clean. She washed from my eyebrows to my toe jam, then set my hair on hard plastic curlers. Those curlers have teeth on them, too. “For
gripping
your hair,” Mama explained.
Now she expects me to get a good night’s sleep on these teethy pink plastic things. Mama had given me a whole mess of curlers from her hair care kit, too many for my small head of hair. When I told her I didn’t need the extra curlers, and to please put them back in her hair-care kit, she insisted that I keep a pile of the curlers on my nightstand. “They come loose and can fall out while you sleep,” she told me. “Besides, curlers are like socks. They have a way of disappearing. Always good to have some handy.”
While I was in the bathroom messing with thecurlers in my hair, trying to tie up my hard plastic teethy head in a scarf, Mama laid out clothes for my first day at Prettyman Coburn.
When I got back to my bedroom, there it was on a new hanger, dangling from the doorknob — the Peach Melba dress! Before I could protest, Mama explained, “I sewed a panel into each side to open up the bodice. It’ll fit fine now.”
The patent leather shoes were on the floor, side by side, at the foot of the dress. I’d taken to calling those shoes “the Vaselines.” They had more grease on them than a petroleum factory.
The shoes fit, but even with ankle socks, they rub at the heel and on the tops of my feet, at the place where the buckle meets each of the straps. The worst part, though, is that Mama had made a hair bow to match the dress. That thing looked more like a
bone
than a bow. I would be going to Prettyman Coburn with Vaseline feet and a Peach Melba
bone
in my hair!
I didn’t say a word — I
couldn’t.
Partly because the only word flinging up inside my head was
ugly,
and partly because I didn’t want to hurt Mama’s feelings. She had worked hard on mending the dress, shining the shoes, and making the bow.
But what about my feelings? I don’t give a nose hair what people think about me, but I also don’t like to look stupid.
Later – the in-between
For the life of me, I can’t sleep.
I’ve counted sheep, chickens, baseballs, the stars out my window, and the moans made by our pipes. I’m more excited than on Christmas Eve.
What shiny surprises will be waiting for me tomorrow?
Even with all my excitement,
shaboodle-shake
is rocking my bed — and my head.
Wednesday, September 8, 1954
Diary Book,
Last night I dreamed about the Panic Monster.
I woke up with a bad headache, from the curlers. When I took them out, their teeth had left marks on my forehead and at my ears. And my curled hair made me look like a muffin-head.
Mama secured the
bone
with four big bobby pins.
Then she and Daddy started in with repeating their lists of “Always remember …” and “Don’t forget …” and “Make sure you …”
But before Mama or Daddy could get too deep into their rules, the phone rang. I answered it. I knew the voice right off. It was that white lady from the NAACP, asking to
tawlk
to Mama or Daddy.
I pushed the receiver at Mama. “Yes,
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